


Wingèd Seraphs Of Heaven Coveted Him And Me

by coquet



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Based on the poem Annabel Lee, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Incest, John & Paul are cousins, Kissing, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-03 22:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquet/pseuds/coquet
Summary: John is madly in love with Paul, even though they are bound by blood.





	1. Somethin’ Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: even though it isn’t explicit it still is incest so be prepared

1958– _I_ was a child and  _he_ was a child

They eat sandwiches and cherries, drinking milk to wash it all down. Spring was the perfect time to have a picnic, they could see all the pretty flowers blooming and sit close together to stay warm. It’s so peaceful and domestic, listening to birds chirp, taking in the overgrown nature of an abandoned building’s expansive backyard. There’s light pink flowers that remind John of Paul’s lips, and he wonders if they could even compare to how soft his lips are. A foolish part of him wants to pluck a few of them and give them to Paul, tell him how their beauty pales in comparison when he holds them. Instead, John just sits next to Paul, wondering why he has random, overwhelming thoughts about him sometimes. 

“I’m getting tired,” Paul yawns, lazily rubbing his eyes as he rests his head on John’s shoulder. John tries to stay still when his body jolts with electricity where his shoulder meets Paul’s temple. He doesn’t understand the recent changes in how his body reacts, the piercing spark of nerves when Paul decides to come in contact with him and the warm feeling his face gets after making eye contact with Paul. 

“Wanna head back then?” He reluctantly asked, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach and the way Paul’s hair tickles his neck. They shouldn’t stay here and satisfy his needs if Paul doesn’t want to be here anymore. 

Paul groaned in protest. “I don’t have the energy for that right now,” he whines, not budging from where he’s pressed up against John’s side. 

John doesn’t push it any further. He awkwardly curls a hand around Paul’s hip, hoping that it’d come off platonic enough to not arise any suspicion. In the back of his mind he knows he doesn’t have to worry, Paul’s the only one here and not Mimi or Julia or Mary, but the paranoia of being watched still follows him around like a shadow. Would anyone who walks by tell there’s something wrong with him? Could they look at him and Paul and immediately tell they’re related? 

John moves his hand back to the blanket underneath them. Paul doesn’t really look like him at all, he’s spent hours staring at that face trying to pick out what they had in common, not coming up with a solid comparison. There was more differences than anything, Paul had fairer skin and darker hair, a nicer nose coupled with prettier lips. Paul was more talented than him, pulled more girls, perfect in any criteria he tried to rate him under. 

Maybe he should be jealous of Paul instead of in awe. Paul’s everyone’s favorite, whether they admit it or not, and doesn’t get into half the trouble John finds himself in. Paul isn’t scrutinized for every little thing he does, constantly praised for being better than John academically, even though he was in college which was completely different from secondary school. He gave up pointing out how different the two were to Mimi, let’s her prattle on about Paul’s success while thinking about what he’s doing at the moment. 

John wants Paul to think about him too. Desperately needs Paul to have thoughts about him when he’s not around. He already feels like he’s losing his mind, everything that was in his control no longer is, like someone had gone and scrambled his brain. John can’t be alone in this, Paul needs to have noticed something amiss in his own mind too. Paul has yet to mention any changes. 

They haven’t been talking a lot recently. John tries to ask Paul innocently seeming questions during dinner, sat across from him with their knees touching. Paul doesn’t give complete answers, purposely taking his time to chew and swallow. This picnic has been the first thing they’ve done together without anyone else in a couple of months, and it saddens John to think that Paul doesn’t want to be close with him any longer. Part of him thinks it’s not that far from the truth, even if it’s a bit dramatic. 

Paul moved his head a bit, coming closer to John, heightening his senses. The sun isn’t directly hitting them anymore, half obscured by clouds which makes it feel colder than it already is. There’s delicious heat coming from Paul, reminding him of a warm shower, leaving him craving more than Paul pressed against his side. Paul always leaves him feeling like this. 

“Stop being so tense,” Paul says softly, a firm command that resembles the way Mary speaks to him. Sometimes he wished to be Mary’s son too, cared for by the same woman who made someone as divine as Paul. 

“Can’t look like I’m enjoin’ this too much can I?” John asked, sounding harsher than he intended to.

Paul doesn’t respond. John’s pretty sure he agrees with him, anyone sane and not in love would. People cared too much about two men and two women being together. Always made assumptions about the two of them, John could see it in their eyes, the disgust and pity. John wants to tell them that he’s the only one, Paul is just caught in the crossfire of his love. 

When the sky starts turning orange they decide to head to Mimi’s house. John notices how distant Paul is on their way back, doesn’t question it for the sake of his own feelings. Mimi doesn’t notice the change in Paul’s behavior, cheerily talking to the both of them about the nice girl she meet that’d be good for one of them (Paul) as she gets around to make dinner. They both take turns showering before dinner and helping her set the table. She politely asks Paul if he’d want to stay the night when they sit down, and Paul looks over at him before nodding. 

Dinner is a silent affair except for Mimi’s questions about how today went. Paul doesn’t answer them, leaving it up to John to make it seem like everything was fine. At this point all John wants to do is sleep, even if he had to be pressed against Paul all night. John goes straight to bed after dinner, not waiting for Paul to follow him. 

By the time Paul finally gets under the covers, John’s half asleep. He stays still, hoping Paul thinks he’s already asleep. 

“John, are you awake?” Paul whispered, still getting under the covers. 

John sighed. “Yeah,” he mumbled, turning onto his back. He can barely make out Paul’s face and likes it better this way, doesn’t have to be distracted by how beautiful Paul is. 

“Do _you_ like me in the way _I_ like you?” Paul asks. 


	2. You Know You’re Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s hella angst in this chapter

1961- But we loved with a love that was more than love

There’s something creeping in John’s veins. Thick and syrupy, black and heated. George speaks words to him he can’t understand, frantic gibberish in an attempt to stop the urge to strike bubbling up in his gut. George is a scrawny thing compared to John, couldn’t even hold him back if he wanted to. John tried to ignore it at first— _them_, Paul and whoever. He’s a witness to the taunting laughs and mocking kisses, shot after shot after shot until there’s no pain left in his chest and there’s three Paul’s from alternate universes. 

Ringo comes to George’s aide when John gets ready to confront Paul, ready to put on a good fight. He wants them to disappear, stop force feeding logic when he’s focused on Paul. There’s never any reasonable way to think, no point for it when impulse has held everything else hostage. They’ve never seen how far gone John is, or cared to notice, or ask. George and Ringo seem just fine telling him what to do and how to act, ignoring how clingy he is with Paul in favor of not rocking the boat. 

John’s obligated to not do anything that would jeopardize the little income they get from gigs (made even smaller when divided), George and Ringo tell him, a useless mantra constantly echoing in the back of his mind. Have money and be miserable, watch Paul 1, 2 and 3 look at that girl with so much love and lust because they’re all ready to fuck her even if it breaks his heart _thrice_ over. 

He’s weak enough to be forced back on to the stool he sat in, George and Ringo look relived for some reason. John can’t understand why, he can still feel his blood pump through his entire body, there’s still the urge to get up again and really do some damage. Then, while he sits there, ignored and abandoned, watched by two people who haven’t any clue, he feels his cheeks wet with something foreign and acidic. 

“John, why’re you _cryin_’??” Ringo asks, disbelief and disappointment and everything negative written over his face, blocking the view of all three Paul’s. It makes him want to cry more, not being able to see what acts of betrayal Paul is performing now. There’s no peace here, boxed in with the stares and complete disregard. 

John gets up again and shoves past Ringo and George, this time not heading towards the person who stabbed him in the heart but instead to the exit. The nice, black door that kept all his sorrow in and revealed the pitch black sky. He can’t see shit with the soft light provided by the moon, only illuminating a sliver of all the things around him. Running away would be far better if he could remember where the hell they were, the road in front of the club stretched for miles in both directions. 

He sits down in the middle of the road, palms digging into his eye sockets until there’s stars, millions and billions of them, dancing under his eyelids. Paul _doesn’t_ like him how he likes him. All Paul does is placate and try to let him down softly, avoiding his kisses and desperate pleas for something more whenever it’s not to gain the upper hand. He just wants Paul to tell him the truth, stop going around with these girls right in front of him while everything’s unraveling between the two of them, had been ever since 1958. 

John can hear someone calling his name, but refuses to get up from his spot. The concrete has molded and become extremely comfy, the soreness in his lower back ebbing away the longer he sat. Being out here, staining his palms with something black and oily, was a thousand times better than having George and Ringo preen over him. He can breathe without inhaling any bit of Paul, enjoy the cool air burning his throat. 

He’s not impressed when George kicks one of his splayed our legs. Can’t George see how peaceful it is right now? No hurt can reach him as long as the Pandora’s box turned night club stays shut, keeping Paul in. 

“The hell are you doing? C’mon back inside,” George orders, equally unimpressed at the mess of a man below him. 

John scoffs, not bothering to get up. George can stand there and look down at him all he wants, kick his leg until there’s bruises scattering the length of it, he’s not leaving the tranquility shrouded in darkness. This is the only break he gets from Paul until the next time he can’t bear to be suffocated by Paul’s indifference. 

George mutters something, shaking his head while facing the club. Ringo probably sent him out here, the only one who seems to give the slightest fuck about how he feels. It’s a bit comforting, knowing that at least someone cares enough about him (even though Paul doesn’t). John goes back to pressing his palms against his eyes and shuts George out, dismissing his hovering presence. 

George calls him hopeless before John hears his footsteps in the opposite direction. He wants to go back and have a good time too, pretend Paul doesn’t even exist, or better yet, acknowledge Paul in the same vacant way he does whenever there’s some decent looking girl whispering in his ear. Hurting Paul would give him such a deep, gut-feeling satisfaction, balance the scale between the two of them, knock Paul down a few pegs or two, revenge given in the form of mockery. He wants to watch Paul’s chest cave in and hear him fucking sob, sob so hard he can’t breathe and his face turns red and he feels like _Death_ is nearby, watching, laughing, because he might die from lack of oxygen caused by crying so hard. 

John sighs, bringing his legs to his chest. Never in a million years could he get even with Paul. He’s so deeply captured by Paul’s beauty and talent, the stupid jokes he tells and how he smells. It’s _disgusting_, revolting, how infatuated he is with someone completely off limits, but every time he happens to look over at Paul there’s no angel whispering into his ear, common sense leaves his conscious, and the only thing left is love and affection. 

“I can’t believe you.” 

John opens his eyes so fast it hurts, arms protectively wrapping around his legs. He doesn’t know how George or Ringo managed to convince Paul to come outside, half of him honestly not even wanting to deal with Paul right now. Maybe Paul likes this, having this much of an impact on him, leaving him feeling like a wounded animal half of the time. There goes his desolation, swapped for a sharp pain in his heart and a death stare boring into his soul. 

“Get up, John. We’re leaving now, I hope you’re satisfied,” Paul hisses, sounding more sober than he looks, slightly swaying. 

John realizes he’s sobered up too, thinking about Paul so hard that the little pleasure he got out of not being responsible for his thoughts because of alcohol turned sour while sitting out here. He reluctantly gets on his feet, looking at the ground like a punished child, waiting for Paul to lead the way back. He only feels guilty for how discreetly happy he is to have Paul to himself again. 

“George and Ringo are staying?” John asked, taking a glance at the club to avoid eye contact with Paul. He hates seeing Paul mad at him, can’t stand the thought that he caused Paul to act so hostile. 

Paul starts to walk down the road, ignoring his question. John thinks that Ringo and George are still inside the club, probably talking about the two of them. They’ll wake up hungover and satisfied and not with the crippling anxiety that’s been building in their chest for years on end. John’s positive that he’d have only half the anxiety he feels if he and Paul would communicate and not bottle everything up like they plan on pickling pent up feelings like some _sick_ prize on a display shelf. 

John steels himself and walks the same pace as Paul, dismissing the fleeting look he received. He doesn’t want Paul’s pity in the morning, the soft spoken words and careful movements that make him forgive Paul a thousand times over, ends in him being the one to ask to be forgiven, like he’s in the wrong, the one who constantly stabs the other in the heart and the back and the whole bloody body until it’s actually _bleeding out_. 

They get home rather quickly, John’s actually surprised by the fact because from what he could remember they’d taken forever to just arrive at the club. The agony of knowing that Paul wouldn’t be around him tonight probably made everything seem slower, or Paul was purposefully speed walking to get it all over with, tired of having John next to him. He bites his tongue, refraining from saying anything smart to Paul and starting an argument. 

John’s stoic facade doesn’t seem to bother Paul, the silence and apathy is met with minimal irritation (a _singular_, short lived sigh). He stands behind Paul, every muscle stiff and aching with the need to lie down, waiting for him to open the door. All the horrible, regrettable nights always end here, the moment before they separate into different rooms to sleep and wake up in the morning with forced amnesia. 

Paul turns around to face John, anger dissipated, replaced by something he doesn’t want to figure out. He can’t be bothered to ask Paul what’s wrong, not wanting to break the blockade he’s managed to keep up for this long. There’s no point in breaking the routine now, they’ve gotten this far already, might as well push through the end. 

Then Paul’s way too close and his lips are burning, pressed against Paul’s too harshly. John knows how forced this is, what a pathetic and masterful act Paul plays every time. Paul pulls all the stops he can to have him accept the blame for everything, it’s his fault for being mad and it’s his fault for causing the tension between them and he’s oh so sorry for being such a burden. Paul’s careful hands already start to unravel him before they get in the house, and John’s so weak and defeated he lets it happen, ready to grovel for forgiveness. 

“I’m sorry. How can you _forgive_ a fuck up like me?” 

In the morning, Paul leaves him with tear stained cheeks and scratches so deeply embedded in his back he’s positive he’ll have permanent scars. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the first line of each chapter is from Edgar Allen Poe’s poem but with the pronouns changed


End file.
